


The Rowboat and the Whale

by Insert_witty_username



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Gen, Hurt Stephen Strange, Insecure Stephen Strange, Kinda based on my experiences, Lonliness, Stephen Strange Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insert_witty_username/pseuds/Insert_witty_username
Summary: A short insight into Stephen and his battles with anxiety and depression.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	The Rowboat and the Whale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cumbermarvel (spotty_lion)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotty_lion/gifts).



> Deeply inspired by the incredible Cumbermarvel (UglyJackal) and their story The Friendly Whale. And while I don't have experience with transitioning and thusly don't feel comfortable writing about transgender experiences as they did in their story, I have always framed my anxiety and depression as an ocean from a young age and I've always associated whales with those who have pulled me from the depths.
> 
> Warning: Discussion of anxiety, depression, and borderline suicidal thoughts.

Stephen was in a boat.

It was nothing fancy, but then again it never had been. It was just a little rowboat bobbing amidst the waves. It was just him there floating across the surface of the ocean, just him and his rowboat and two sturdy paddles drifting along at sea. It took him a little while to understand exactly where he was and what he was supposed to do, but something told him to row. He liked to think it was a voice born inside him, but if anything that voice had been borne from all the voices surrounding him as he grew up, telling him that he had to row and row and row faster and harder each day. They promised that accomplishment would come as he crested every wave, that satisfaction would be found as he pushed himself forwards against the current. That promise was enough to keep him going for a while. He forced himself forwards, over wave after wave after wave until his muscles were sore and everything around him looked exactly the same. Truly he didn’t want to row all day, he didn’t want to race across the waves.

There was only so far he could paddle each day, only so much he could do with his shaking and damaged hands, but he knew his limits. He knew when to take a break and when he could keep going, and for the most part, he was okay. He could be content alone on the ocean, rowing endlessly forwards with no clear vision of what was to come. He had chosen a path of isolation, and he could be happy with exactly that. He could face the waves, no matter how high they loomed. He always knew he would reach the crest, even if it seemed impossible.

But then there were the nights when the stars and the moon and the entire sky would boil over with clouds, when sharp cold winds filled with ice and hail would whip at his boat. Nights when he would frantically row, the waters tipping and churning beneath him, waves growing higher and higher until his little rowboat finally betrayed him and tipped over into the freezing waters below. Swimming in the ocean is difficult at the best of times, but when he sank all he ever felt was pure exhaustion. He wanted to fight against the current, he truly did, but his limbs were already so tired, his muscles aching and his mind shattered. He let himself sink, let himself fall into the depths. It was so much easier to let the air drift from his lungs in chains of bubbles, so much easier to watch as the surface grew farther and farther away until he sank to the very bottom of the ocean. The sand would always cradle his fall, the seaweed wrap around him like an old friend. It was nice, in a way, to stare up at the turbulent surface of the water above, a pleasant sort of dissociation that hummed in his bones, a sort of calm brought on with the knowledge that things couldn’t get worse. That he was safe from the pain.

The crashing waves above were so loud, but the bottom of the ocean was always quiet.

But then there was the whale. It’s soft, melodic song would cut through the silence. Yet strangely, it never hurt Stephen’s ears. It was comforting. Like a lullaby. Like a promise. It made Stephen smile. No matter how deep he fell, the gentle leviathan always found him. It would find him and sing to him of calm. The whale would often have different names, different kindnesses, but it always looked the same. Like peace. Like care.

The whale would find him in the deep, buried in the sand or tangled in the sea weed, or simply floating, and it would look at him as if to say, “oh love, don’t worry. I’m here, I’ve got you,” and it would take Stephen in its warm gentle mouth and carry him up and up and up until together they breached the surface of the waves. Sometimes the whale would help him back to his boat, set him down and simply bid him farewell with a stanza of its lovely, beautiful song, but more often than not, the whale would stay. They would float together across the surface of the water, Stephen lying flat across its back, and the two of them would stare up at the night sky for hours on end, eyes tracing invisible lines between the stars. And whenever the whale was there, Stephen was happy.

There had been a time when his ocean was filled with whales, when their beautiful shining sides would breach the surface of a sunny ocean to greet him even at his highest moments, when he was so happy and cared for and surrounded by love that the sun always seemed to shine and the dark clouds stayed hidden at the edges of the horizon.

But now all the whales were gone and Stephen was alone in the cold, dark, empty ocean. Somehow, he didn’t feel like paddling anymore.


End file.
